Red Shots
by YellowRosesAndHearts
Summary: For now a dumping ground for the one-shots that pop into my head. Trying to find inspiration again...
1. Worried

_**So, I'm on my next thing. I really liked writing the 25 departures series, so I'm going to do another one-shot series. The problem is, I have no idea what is going to connect all these stories, if anything. So for now I'm going to let this be a dumping ground of sorts for all of my random ideas, which might eventually develop into some cohesive whole. Maybe. **_

_**The first chapter is kind of a post-ep for season 2, episode 2. Minelli's POV, spoilers. I used the dialogue from the show, but I couldn't remember it exactly verbatim. But it's the gist. R&R.**_

Minelli is worried.

He's never had to worry about Lisbon before, never had to question her judgment. Never had any reason to think she was anything other than reliable, professional. Not when he snapped her up from Bosco's unit, made her the head of her own team. She was tough, and smart, and passionate. One of the most capable agents he'd ever come across.

And that was why he'd tossed Patrick Jane her way. Because if anyone could handle him, it was her. If anyone could use him to his best advantage without letting him go too far off the rails, it was Lisbon. Selfishly he knew that she, possessed of a complete aversion to giving up, would never try to give him back, and never try to pawn him off on someone else. It wasn't in her nature.

But looking back, maybe he should have known better. The thing he likes best about Lisbon—the complete, unswerving loyalty to all those she considers her own—that's the problem, now. She protects Cho, Rigsby, and Van Pelt with a fierceness that would put most mothers to shame—they're her agents, and that's the end of it. You'd never catch Lisbon throwing any of them under the bus, not even when they might deserve it. And everyone in the Bureau knows that screwing with anyone on Lisbon's unit is its own unique brand of suicide; she'll go after you, and hard. He admires that.

But he's never known the degree to which Jane has wormed his way into that place in her heart—that loyal place, that protected place. He's not some nut job on the fringe of the unit, not anymore. He's one of hers, and he's changed her.

They're tight now, as much as Lisbon doesn't want to admit it. Jane saved her life five months ago, and as much as she might try to deny it, something like that changes a relationship. And getting too close to Jane is a bad idea, even if she can't see it. Because Red John is more than another case to her now; she wants to solve it for _him_. Wants it so much that Minelli was afraid it would cloud her judgment, and make her do something stupid. He'd never admit it, but he gave the case to Bosco to protect her from that.

She's teaming up with Jane more and more now. No longer like the old days, when he and Lisbon would stand together to keep Jane in line. Almost as often as not now, it's two against one the other way.

Gathering her nerve when Minelli wants to strong arm her into taking her latest job to the DA right away. Straightening herself to her greatest possible height, saying to him: "Isn't this still my case?"

And Minelli wants to say, I don't really know. Is it your case, or is it his? Can anyone tell the difference anymore?

She looks down, and then back up at him again. "And if it is still my case, isn't it my decision when we go to the DA?"

Minelli almost laughs, because she's essentially just said to him, unless you decide to remove me from this case, mind your own business. A set of brass ones on this woman, the reason he hired her in the first place. So he lets her have her way, even though he's sure it's Jane's way, not hers.

***

"You abused a corpse to get a confession?" Thinking there is a mistake, there must be a mistake, because there is no way in hell that the Agent Lisbon he knows could have ever authorized something this stupid.

"Used, not abused, no 'ab'," Jane pipes up with all his characteristic flippancy. Except that instead of looking stern and disapproving, he swears he sees Lisbon bite back a smile.

"Look, sir, we found a way to get a confession, and caught a killer. I think we ought to be commended." Casually shrugging her shoulders, a cheeky sparkle in her eyes that he sees mirrored in Jane's. God help them.

"Well, you've gotten her to drink the kool-aid. Congratulations." Walking off, as a profound sense of worry overwhelms him.

Lisbon, with her promising career, a growing superstar in the CBI. Lisbon, with all her grit and integrity, by the book in the same vein of Sam Bosco, her mentor. Lisbon, tough and fearless and in control, no nonsense, no messing about. Lisbon, slipping away.

He doesn't have the same steadfast loyalty Lisbon has, he knows that. He's seen too much, been in on Bureau politics for way too long. But he knows that he's going to do everything in his power to protect her, if he can. He owes her; she's been making him look good for years now. He goes to the horribly tedious parties the department throws, and he is invariably always pulled into a conversation about some great case Agent Lisbon solved; half of them want to take her home to meet their mothers. Lisbon makes his job easier as much as she makes it harder.

And as much as he doesn't like to admit it, there's some sentiment to it, too. He saw something in her, hired her. And he cares about her. Because Minelli knows that if Jane goes over the line too much to be fixed one day and he has to throw him out of the CBI, he'll be more upset at hurting Lisbon than anything. Which sits blatantly in the thick of caring too much.

He'll protect her as much as he can, but she's different now. And protecting her from herself is an entirely different issue.

***

Later that day, Minelli wanders upstairs to collect the paperwork from Lisbon's unit to send downtown, as he does after every case. After this, he'll hole up in his office and field the flurry of complaints that invariably come in after any case in which Jane has been involved. Most of the time, he concludes that Jane is ultimately worth the hassle.

He doesn't know how he feels about the man personally, he can't decide whether or not he likes him. Jane is certainly charming, funny, makes the department more interesting. He solves cases like nothing Minelli has ever seen in thirty years as a cop. And Minelli sympathizes with him, for sure; can't imagine what it's like to lose so much, to leave home in the morning with a family, and come home without one. But he also never knows when Jane is being genuine, and has trouble telling the difference between the man and the act. Knows that Jane is liable to say one thing and do another at almost any time. He's a hard man to like, but he's a hard man to dislike, too.

He rounds a corner, to see Lisbon and Jane at the far end of the squad room. The others in the unit are on their computers, not looking at the two of them, but obviously listening in.

"I brought you something," Jane is saying. Going inside his briefcase, and pulling out a white box with a red ribbon around it.

Lisbon looks skeptical, and doesn't take it.

"What?" Jane says. "It's for you."

"The last time this happened, Jane, you gave me a diamond necklace." Trying to be stern, but both smile at the memory.

Minelli frowns. A diamond necklace? He doesn't want to know. He really doesn't want to know. He can't count on all his fingers and toes how many bureau rules that would break.

"Yes, well, I got you something you can keep this time."

She opens the box, and quirks her eyebrow. "Chocolate covered strawberries?" Pulling one out, a plump one bathed in dark chocolate.

"You like strawberries."

"I do."

And a pause then, Minelli wondering where this is going, more worried and intrigued by the second.

"They're to say thank you." And Jane looks different; not arrogant, not haunted, not like himself. If anything he looks a bit unsure, almost shy. Minelli has the distinct impression that this is the first time he's realized how much Lisbon does for him, the first time he's ever really thanked her.

Lisbon takes one, puts it between her lips, bites it. Closes her eyes for a second. "Sweet," she murmurs, so low he can hardly hear her. And turns a radiant smile on Jane that Minelli thinks would turn him inside out if he was twenty-five years younger, not her boss, and not so happily married.

Recognizes the look on Jane's face as Lisbon walks off; the look of a man who has been intrigued by a beautiful woman.

And Minelli is even more worried now, as he heads over to Agent Cho's desk to pick up the packet of paperwork he came for. Lisbon would do almost anything, short of laying down in front of a train, in the name of loyalty to her team.

He hopes Jane will prove worthy of it, even though he doubts that he will.


	2. Speed Dating

_**This is one of the weirder stories I've written. It's weird, and at some points rather incoherent, and I don't know how I feel about it. A lot of it is about Rigsby settling into the CBI as a rookie, and I like to make him uncomfortable, so I did that, but there's some JL in here because that makes me happy. I also thought it would be fun to make Lisbon kind of sexy and dangerous for one story, and to let her ignore Jane's plan for once, so that's in here. Van Pelt doesn't exist yet. R&R. **_

_**Oh, and they're speed dating. If that doesn't come across, or if I didn't say it outright in the story. **_

_*******_

_March, 2008_

So this is what they do in the CBI.

Rigsby, who comes from investigating arsons to this, walking into a packed Singles Bar with his co-workers. Jane, who gives him a devilish grin and tells him to "get a few numbers, kill two birds with one stone," to Cho, who hardly cracks a smile. All business except for his deadpan wit, which, to the untrained ear, can be interpreted as business, too. Lisbon, the boss, who is a foot shorter than he is and is even more intimidating than his last boss, as if to make up for that.

It's a strange, strange group.

***

"Aren't you going to drink your wine?"

It's a little after ten at night, and the lights are dim. Candle in the middle of the table and soft jazz in the background, soft lights flickering against Jane's cheeks. Blue eyes somehow bluer in the dark, and smirking at her from across the table.

"I told you not to order me wine, Jane." Crossing her hands in front of her, trying to put across as much professionalism as she can while wearing a halter dress with her shoulders out, and more make-up around her eyes now than she's worn all together in the past month.

"Is that how you speak to all your dates? It's no wonder you're trolling around a singles bar."

"We're not on a date."

"I beg to differ. For the next—" here, he checks his watch, "five and a half minutes, you and I are on a date. And then you'll have a date with the gentleman who looks like PC from those Mac commercials. I doubt you'll have much in common."

Lisbon rolls her eyes. It's part of the job, she supposes, but Jane has to take situations that might be a trifle uncomfortable and make them worse. Like the way he's ordered her a Red Merlot and set it in front of her, even though she's expressly told him that she never drinks on duty, and only rarely drinks anywhere else. "You'll like it," he said. Ignoring her protests, as is his way.

"So what is your name, young lady?"

Rolling her eyes. "You know my name."

He ignores this, too. "My name is Patrick," he says, reaching across the table.

She resolutely shakes her head no. Crossing her arms. Absolutely not.

"You're going to blow our cover, and then how are you going to feel?" Voice too damn upbeat for her taste. Hating him, hating that he's absolutely right, the way she's sitting now, leaned back as far away from him as she can, screams that there's something suspect going on.

So she takes his hand. "Teresa," she says.

"Teresa." Pretending to mull the name over in his mind as he keeps the hand for a few seconds longer than she thinks is necessary. "That's a very pretty name. It suits you."

Lisbon breaks into a grin. "Well. Patrick doesn't seem to suit you, if I'm being honest. You look more like a Jane, to me. No offense."

"Oh no, none taken." Leans across the table. "I've always had a certain weakness for beautiful, controlling women who call me Jane."

A wink, she can't help herself. "Great answer." Encouraging the crazy man. Brilliant.

"So what do you do, Teresa?" Smiling that charming smile at her, a seductive twinkle in his bright eyes.

Well, why the hell not. "I work for the CBI. I'm the head of a unit." She un-crosses her legs under the table and then re-crosses them, leans towards him an imperceptible amount.

"A boss lady," Jane says. He leans forward, too. "I love a woman with her own set of handcuffs."

"Yeah, well, the only people who get to see them are bad guys."

Sly smile, voice soaked in innuendo. "I can be bad."

She bites her lip, shakes her head. "That's not what I meant."

"It's what I meant." Voice so wicked now that she actually giggles. Puts her hand up in front of her mouth to shut herself up, but the damage has been done. Flinches when she remembers the tiny bud that all of them are wearing in their ears, which means that Cho and Rigsby can hear them.

"That's enough, Jane."

But he ignores her. Again. "Tell me about your team, Teresa."

She shakes her head. "No."

"Oh, come on, it's perfectly acceptable small talk to chat about your co-workers. Or, I could tell you all about all of your ex-boyfriends, if that would set you more at ease."

"There are three of them," she says, immediately. "All men."

"What are they like?"

She rolls her eyes. "There's Cho. We've worked together the longest. Good guy, great agent. Kind of the strong and silent type."

"That sounds like someone we know."

"Shut up. And then Rigsby, he's the rookie. He's been a quick study." Takes a sip of the wine without even thinking about it; it tastes good, goes down easily. Damn the man. "And our consultant."

"What's he like?"

"Eccentric. Arrogant."

"Handsome devil?"

"If you ask him."

"I'm sure you're being unduly hard on him, Teresa."

"I'm sure I'm not. But he's... one of us."

Jane tilts his head down. "Beautiful, clever, with a great job. Why does she need help finding a date?"

Color in her cheeks now; somehow the question grounds her. "I don't know."

Silence now. A waitress comes by, and she puts her Merlot on the tray. Doesn't need to be tempted to drink, especially while she's on the job.

The bell sounds from across the room. The guy who looks like PC standing to greet her; Jane standing, too.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Teresa." A pause. "I'll certainly be giving you a call."

She tries not to smile.

Tries, and fails.

***

Cho is stuck talking to a woman who really, really likes birds.

Canaries mostly, but she's not opposed to sparrows, or your basic parrot. She has seven birds in her house, and she doesn't keep them in cages. They all zoom to the front door to meet her when she gets home from her shift at the pet store.

As she talks, Cho scans the room for someone matching their description. Raditch, a middle-aged loner who killed his elderly female landlord two weeks ago, who frequents this spot in hopes of finding his very own Carol Brady.

The boss is at the table next to him, smiling pleasantly on this guy with a khaki suit jacket and Bill Gates glasses, who looks like one of Cho's typing teachers from Middle School. Lisbon, all dressed up and shining, who walked into her office a few hours ago looking like herself, with her pulled-back hair and tailored suit, no make-up, and came out twenty minutes later looking like someone he didn't recognize. He thinks of her office now like Clark Kent's phone booth.

Wearing a plum purple satin thing that's tight at the top and more flowy at the bottom, with very, very high heels. All of her hair out, looking thicker, somehow. She could almost be mistaken for sexy if he didn't know her.

The bell rings—_thank god, thank you god—_and Cho sits across from Lisbon next. Her eyes light up, she looks relieved to see him.

"You look nice, boss," Cho says, no shyness about it because it's not flattery. "Any sign of him?"

"Nothing according to Jane. Says he'll know when he hears me talk to him." Rolls her eyes, and Cho knows that it grates on her to feel like she depends on him for so much. They solved cases before Jane, but the simple fact is, they solve more cases with him. And so she puts up with him not telling her everything, like they all do. And maybe a teeny-tiny bit of liking him in there, too.

"Nice crowd," Cho says.

"You having a fun night, Cho?" A little bit of dry deadpan in her voice.

"Oh yeah. I'm having a blast. After I talked to a woman who decided that it was appropriate to nickname me 'Kimmy' after five seconds of knowing each other, I then got to have a lovely little chat with Jessica Simpson's dumber, less attractive twin. And then I got to have a date with Crazy Lady over there, who has some kind of canary fetish."

Lisbon snickers at him. "Yeah, well, I had to have a date with Jane. Top that."

Cho decides that it's not polite to say that he listened to Jane and Lisbon's "date" in its entirely, and the whole damn thing actually sounded pretty congenial. Flirtatious, if you really wanted to know. He could hardly pay attention to the woman who called him Kimmy, because of what was going on in his ear. Something about handcuffs and bad boys, which just sounded all types of wrong.

But he doesn't say any of that, because it's just not the way he and Lisbon are. And he doesn't want to change them, not really.

"Rigsby seems to be fitting in well." Lisbon says, eyeing him. He is laughing with canary lady, a brightness in his eyes. Maybe Rigsby has the bird fetish, too.

"We need to find him a girlfriend," Cho quips. "That's just not cool."

The bell rings again. Cho gives Lisbon a succinct nod, and moves on.

***

Jane knows he can work a room.

It's a given. He even likes people, all kinds of people, finds them interesting. If he had his way, he would be surrounded by people all the time. And this is the kind of place that he should find fascinating. A speed dating party, all kinds of people who are perpetually single for all kinds of reasons, looking for life partners or best friends or someone to just go home with. Looking for anything. This is the kind of environment he thrives in.

But after leaving Teresa behind, he's... bored. No other word for it. He smiles at the women he sits across from, shows off his light touch, his quick wit, but he's bored. Listening to the conversations going on at Lisbon's table with a sharp ear. Twinkling sound of her laughter when Cho says something funny, he can practically see her smile lighting up her eyes. A rare one.

And listening out for the distinguishing voice that will jump out an announce itself as Raditch, the man they've been looking for. Raditch, who hates women, but is very, very lonely—it's a certain pitch he'll hear, a certain lilt that will come out when Lisbon baits him, when he thinks he's found someone. Not a physical pitch, of course, but something in his speech pattern that will throw itself at him.

After the PC guy has his date with Lisbon it's Cho's turn, who is brusque and business-like even as they make small talk, but still some undeniable camaraderie there. Cho's muttered, "you look nice, boss," the closest thing they'll even get to affection, gruff and short but still somehow comfortable in its way.

And then after Cho leaves, the guy behind him piques Jane's interest. He introduces himself as Jack. He has a voice that is low-pitched and roughly textured, hums in his throat between sentences.

Jack, who says he's a cop (Jane doubts it), who is here because he's always had trouble finding love on his own, and he's looking for the real thing now that he is thirty-seven (Probably more like forty-four). He speaks in a hurried, scattered way, as Lisbon tries to banter him a little.

Jane flicks his cell phone open under the table, and sends Lisbon a two-word text—_it's him_—and watches her open her phone, get the message, and nod. Time for phase two.

Lisbon giggling at a horrible joke now, reaching over the table to pat Jack's hand. Turning her eyes on him and then off again, fetching and flirtatious. Jane knows this even though he can't see her face.

"So you're a cop, huh," Lisbon's voice sweet with seduction and mischief. "Does that mean you have handcuffs?"

Stealing his material, he thinks, he's going to give her hell for that when all this is over.

Raditch, not used to a woman so blatantly flirting with him, and certainly not a woman as beautiful as she is, is caught off guard. Excited, anticipation in his tone, now. Lisbon dangling the bait brilliantly. Better than he would ever have thought.

Lisbon, who said to him earlier that day when he suggested this plan, "No, Jane, I can't flirt. I don't know how to flirt."

Jane responding, "Of course you know how to flirt, Lisbon. Every woman knows how to flirt. It's innate." Thought of saying to her, _and you flirt all the time, with me._ But that wouldn't get him what he wanted, it would just piss her off more-- and anyway, that's dangerous territory.

She'd shaken her head, looking mutinous. "That is not true."

Lisbon, who sure as hell could have fooled anybody, now. She's turning it on full speed. She can flirt with the best of them. Beautiful, confident, radiant.

Jane is almost impressed.

***

Rigsby isn't having a bad time.

Not that shindigs like this are exactly his forte, but there's something to be said for them. After he chats with a woman who really, really likes birds (Rigsby likes birds too, he had a parrot growing up that he still misses)—he gets up to sit across from Lisbon.

She is sitting back with her legs crossed, looking as close to tired as he has ever seen her. Rigsby remembers that this entire take-down is almost squarely on her shoulders—it's her job to draw the guy in, shoot down his hopes, and make him come after her. The rest of them are really just there to watch out for her. A very tiring night for her.

"We found Raditch," she says, not wasting any time.

"Oh?"

"He's standing next to the bar right now."

Rigsby discreetly turns around. "He's looking at you."

"He thinks that he and I are meeting up after this."

"Sounds like you made an impression, boss." He had turned off the bud in his ear to listen to canary lady, and hadn't heard anything of it. Looks over at the bar again. "He's really watching you."

Lisbon looks, too, and her eyes light up as she seems to come across an idea. She sits up straighter. "Smile," she instructs him. Tossing her hair in an animated way so that he'll catch her drift.

Rigsby does. He scoots closer to her, too. A glance at Raditch, who is gritting his teeth.

"Give me your hand."

At first Rigsby isn't sure he's heard her correctly, until she hisses at him again, "Your hand, Rigsby, now."

In his defense, having your boss ask for your hand in any context is weird. So he takes a second to put it on the table, and she reaches over to grab it. Tilts her head at him and smiles more.

Rigsby can't imagine that this looks any less stilted than it feels, but Raditch still looks pissed. Jaw set, steel in his eyes. Oh boy.

"Jane said that Raditch has had enough of being played by women." Still grinning hugely like she's hitting on him rather than briefing him. "You get what I'm saying?"

He nods. He does. But still, "This is weird," he says, before he thinks to bite it back.

She actually laughs. "Yes, well, you have nothing to interest me sexually, Rigsby, if that would make you more comfortable." A bit of the Lisbon he knows, tough and saucy. Then, "stand up," pulling him to his feet before his brain catches up.

A good portion of him is thinking, "really, nothing?" Not knowing whether or not he should be offended.

Standing, his face all twisted up and befuddled until she leans into him and whispers, "you make that face again, Rigsby, and I'll shoot you."

"Sorry, boss."

A predatory smile on her lips as she links arms with him. This is really, really weird. He wishes he wasn't so damn awkward. The horrible thing is, he's even worse with women he's actually interested in.

Whispers to Cho and Jane, who can hear her, "Down the back alley, we're going to lead the suspect to Adams Street. Lay off until then. Raise your right hand if you hear me." They both do.

"Time to put on a show, Rigsby." Takes his hand and pulls him out of the door.

Laughing as they run out into the dark, Lisbon shivering in the cold, but surprisingly quick in her high heels.

"What's the plan, boss?"

"We'll play it by ear."

One block, then another one, then another. Lisbon's phone rings. She says loudly, "It's my mother," and then whispers into it, "Cho, you're behind him? He's following?" Then, "Okay." A few more steps. "Okay." A few more steps. "Okay."

And then the next thing he knows she's got her gun out, and she's turned all the way around, screaming, "CBI! Drop your weapon! Down on the ground! Down on the ground!"

Under a street lamp, all of her hair streaming in her face, the dress and gun in sharp contrast with each other. "Rigsby, cuff him," in that gruff voice he recognizes.

He complies, whispering, "Where were you keeping that?" Takes his gun from him, slaps the cuffs on.

She just laughs, shrugging her shoulders, as Jane and Cho round a corner. "Call a bus to take him in." Completely in charge, this rather small woman in the short dress and high heels. And in a short time, she's completely become his boss. He's been here less than a month, but he's one of them, and she's in charge.

Rigsby tries to speak. "I'm sorry I wasn't, uh—" He tries to come up with the right words—professional, at ease, smooth. All of which apply.

But she cuts him off. Briefly lays a hand on his shoulder. "You did fine."

"You know, chasing him down an alley wasn't in my plan," Jane huffs.

"Yeah, I know, your plan involved all this flowery crap, in which you tie him up in traps of his own making and jump through all these elaborate hoops." Rolls her eyes at him. "Sometimes the old stuff works, too."

She puts her foot on the curb, pulls up her dress a little, flicks the safety on her gun, and sticks it into a garter-looking thing wrapped around her thigh.

Rigsby's mouth is open. He turns to Cho, whose mouth is also open. Even Jane's eyebrows are raised, none of them speaking.

She turns. "What?"

No response.

"Why are you guys looking at me like that?"

Um. Well. Rigsby considers how to answer that question, but it turns out that there's no way to say, _Well, you see, with the gun and the garter and the dress and the heels, you kind of look like some kind of hot assassin out of a movie—_that sounds even remotely appropriate.

So they all say at the same time, "Nothing."

She grabs Raditch by the wrists and pulls him down the alley towards the police sirens, heels clicking against the cement.


	3. Strawberry Orchard

_**So first I would be remiss if I didn't think needs-him-001 for her review which suggested that I write something about how strawberries seem to be a thing on TM, which inspired this. So thank you! I wouldn't be able to write a whole series about strawberries, but I think I'll definitely come back to the theme frequently. So. I really appreciated that idea. The fic itself is self-explanatory. Thanks to the reviewers.**_

Strawberries on her desk when she comes back from Minelli's office after briefing him on a case, with a glass of milk.

Strawberries in her mail cubby when she gets into work late one day, nestled among manilla folders and tiny slips of paper.

Strawberries in the CBI refrigerator, a post-it note stuck to them with her name written on it, that she didn't put in there.

Strawberries always plump and juicy and extra sweet; organic strawberries, never bitter. Always with a green tag on them that simply reads, "California."Jane's way of apologizing to her, or else saying thank you, or else saying other things she doesn't understand. Sometimes strawberries for no reason she can think of except that he knows she loves them.

From the middle of May into June she finds them every week or so; the kind that come from an orchard, instead of a supermarket. It makes sense, coming from him. He is a connoisseur if she has ever met one. The good kind; the ones that make her ache.

Late Spring days after she got home from school, going strawberry picking with her father; to orchards, farms outside of the city, and coming home with baskets of strawberries for the family already half-eaten, and guilty red lips.

Her father loved them as much as she did; strawberries always in their refrigerator, strawberry ice cream, strawberry candies in the sugar cabinet. Always strawberries that her mother didn't like, but would eat anyway to make them happy. Strawberries packed in her lunch box with her peanut butter and banana sandwiches, and juice boxes of ice tea. Always strawberries.

Until she was twelve years old, and she informed her father that she was too old to go berry-picking with him. She wasn't a little girl then, not anymore. She still doesn't know whether she hurt him or not.

And so three springs went by; uneventful, wasted. He went strawberry picking with her youngest brother, or more often by himself, bringing home baskets for their refrigerator. He would ask her if she wanted to come with him, but she never did, again.

And then the Spring she was sixteen, the first spring after her mother died, she had asked him. She wanted him to come strawberry picking with her, she asked him one night while he was laying on the couch and nursing a bottle of Jack. But she never could get him to go; the golden age had ended.

At the end of June, she looks up an old orchard she and her father used to go to. It's a Saturday, and the strawberry season is rapidly coming to a close. She pulls on a tee shirt and a pair of torn jeans to go, feeling the earth soft under her feet.

Strawberries hanging from the nearby trees, in the bushes. Carts of them peddled by old men in overalls. Young couples walking with toddlers who carry tiny baskets low to the ground, below their knees.

And a familiar head of curly blonde hair, wearing jeans and a button down, wandering amongst the crowds of people, looking lost. She goes to stand beside him; he doesn't seem surprised to see her. They walk in silence.

Through the trees, as the wind blows with a light touch, stirs her hair back. A blue-sky day, rows of grass completely green and kept up like a scene from a landscape painting. Sun bright and beating on her face in the best way.

When they pass a man with a cart of strawberries, Jane stops. The man, maybe in his late-fifties , wears a checkered shirt and gray beard, and calls him by name.

"Patrick. More strawberries today?"

And she sees the bundles of them in familiar boxes, with a green sticker on top.

He takes out his wallet, buys a box. The man hands it to him, eyes twinkling with mischief. "For your woman, yes?" And Jane just smiles, shrugs his shoulders. Doesn't explain. Wordlessly hands the box to her, as they walk on.

Lisbon opens it, takes one. Juicy and sweet, familiar, as tears spring into her eyes. Walking here another time with another man, step for step, eating strawberries. She brushes her eyes with her sleeves, Jane doesn't see the tears. Or maybe does, and elects not to say anything.

He reaches into the box for one, too. They sit under a tree with knees up, chewing and swallowing.

He says, "I used to bring my daughter here." Not looking at her. Long arms draped over his legs.

She nods sympathetically, doesn't press him. Somehow knows that's not what he wants; not what he needs. Not why he's mentioned it to her. Gently nudges him in the side with her elbow comfortingly as they sit, in silence.

Strawberries the next day in the top drawer of her desk; strawberries the following day on the hood of her car. Never an apology, never a thank you, never an acknowledgment of meeting in the orchard. Just strawberries.

Always strawberries.


	4. Hair

_**I haven't been feeling especially inspired lately, but I miss writing fanfic. So I wrote these next 2 drabbles in hopes of getting going again. This one takes place after RJ's footsteps. **_

Four days after she almost dies, Lisbon changes her hair.

It's after Hardy has been killed, and after they've searched his house, unable to find any trace of Red John. It's after they close this case, and move on to a new one.

Jane is silent and somber during these days. He dutifully reports to work as he should, even on time, but his eyes are blank, and his smiles are empty.

Lisbon tries not to look at herself too hard in the mirror in the mornings, because she invariably feels incompetent, naive, and so, so stupid. She's too angry to really look at herself for days, thinking how she should have done things differently—she could have cuffed Hardy, even if he was on a stretcher, she could have insisted the ambulance take him away without delay. It shouldn't have come down to Jane having to kill him—she was supposed to be the one to keep those things from happening.

She doesn't know why this translates into a burning urge to chop off her hair. All she knows is that she wants to look different, feel different, be different.

As the stylist snips at her bangs, Lisbon reaches up periodically to brush stray tears from the corners of her eyes. Somehow, trapped in this chair in the middle of the day, reality presses down on her, and she can't make her mind be still. She can't stop thinking, _Hardy was the link. Hardy was the _only_ link. _Red John feels farther away now than he ever has.

She pays her stylist and goes home, hardly giving her new hairstyle a second glance.

The next morning she gets up early, and blow-dries her dark hair. She puts a little extra liner around her eyes, and some gloss on her lips. She pulls on a pair of dark blue jeans, and a rusty red sweater that she vaguely remembers Jane saying looked nice with her skin. She hasn't worn it since then.

She runs into Jane making a cup of tea in the squadroom kitchen, as she prepares her coffee. He takes one look at her, and immediately says, "You shouldn't feel guilty. Hardy wouldn't have told us anything anyway."

She flinches. It's like it just happened, like they've just watched Hardy get carried off into the night, leaving the two of them alone in the dark, their seperate hauntings apparant on each of their faces.

She says, "You don't know that."

A pause. " I don't."

He follows her to her office, leaning against her doorway as she roots through her desk for an extra clip of bullets. Jane suddenly grins wryly at her, and says, "Yes, I noticed."

"Noticed what?"

He gestures at the sweater, the different hair. "You look beautiful today." A little bit of the old mischief lighting up his features.

After he is gone, Lisbon peeks at her reflection in the window, and smiles briefly at herself. It is a new day; a beautiful morning.


	5. First kiss

_**Er. A little angsty. Takes place 2 years in the future. **_

The first time she kisses Jane, she is not distraught.

There hasn't been a rough case, and they haven't had a Red John run-in for months. Nothing has happened to remind her of her parents; nothing has happened to remind him of his wife and daughter.

Neither of them are drunk. He hasn't carried her home from a bar, and she hasn't opened her door unexpectedly to find him there. It's nothing so dramatic as that.

It happens early on his forty-second birthday, in her office, after all the others have left for the day. She lays his gift on her desk, and playfully refuses to let him open it until midnight.

It is a basket of oranges, the kind she knows he likes but doesn't know why, and a vial of expensive, spicy cologne. He opens it immediately, and spreads some on his wrists, before flicking her on the nose with it.

And then he looks at it, at her, and whispers softly, "I'm touched." Much more sweet than he normally would. Maybe knowing that she doesn't really have the extra one hundred dollars this must have cost her.

And Jane, sweet, is new. And so she leans forward, and he leans forward, and they kiss.

She's imagined this enough times, and this is not what she pictured. Enough times when the energy has run high between them, tension thick, that they've resisted the temptation. She wouldn't have thought that a quiet moment in her office would do them in.

It's softer than she's pictured, and slower. There isn't the wrenching in her stomach that she always thought there would be. There is nothing but gentle, sturdy affection.

She has the feeling, as he kisses her and then pauses to breathe her in, hands creeping up into her hair, onto the nape of her neck, that he is memorizing her, imprinting moment after moment on his brain to come back to after this is over, and they are both cold again. For when they go back to their work, back to his never-ending search.

For the first time ever, she sees a worn, tired man in front of her.

She closes her eyes hard and opens them, trying to get all of this, trying to capture the whole thing, with an urgency that shocks her.

Because she knows, the first time she kisses Jane, that it will be the last time.


End file.
